Onto today's depraved episode from HIT & RUN HOLIDAY. This one is a personal favorite of mine, as it's genesis is in something that drives me fucking batshit crazy. Here in LA, the trendy coffee shops are filled with wannabe screenwriters, sitting there with their laptops, writing 'the great American screenplay' for the world to see .. and be impressed with. Bugs the shit out of me. For me, writing is a private thing ... I could NEVER do it in public. I only work deep down in my lair, where my imagination can roam free.
NOT in some fucking airbrushed, art-directed, overpriced Star-fucks.
Whoops. Almost got a little carried away with myself. But that's how I am. Passionate about my work.
So let's find out what happens when wanted fugitive/would-be screenwriter Friday Foster, about to go on her mission of revenge, takes a quick-pit stop in one of these joints ...
Because, you see, the joint she's about to terrorize doesn't open for fifteen minutes ...
EXT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - DAY
A despicable, over-priced hangout for wannabe-trendies
who don’t have a clue about ambiance. Style. Passion. Reality.
Friday walks up to the door. Stops. Looks at her watch.
Fifteen minutes to go.
(looks in the window)
Uch. The pause that depresses --
INT. UPSCALE COFFEE SHOP - CONTINUOUS
Friday bursts in. SLAMS the doors open.
Greetings, fellow consumers.
People look up. Quizzical. Except for a
at a table with his laptop.
Deep in his faux version of ‘thought.’ Sips his latte.
One-finger types on the keyboard.
Like shooting fish in your pants.
She takes the table next to his.
Puts down her stuff.
Poseur’s phone RINGS. He answers it.
This outta be good --
‘Lo. This is Tykey --
Oh, yeah -- it’s at Mark Wahlberg’s joint.
S’gonna be a blowout --
Joint? Who the fuck do you think you are, Spike Lee?
(off his look)
Yeah, you -- I’m talking to you.
Can you speak a little louder?
Cause I don’t want to miss a SINGLE DETAIL
about your FASCINATING LIFE.
Excuse me. This is a private conversation.
No it’s not, not when you’re fucking BROADCASTING IT
in a public place for EVERYONE TO HEAR.
A ‘private conversation’ is at home, or in the office --
but what you’re doing is BOTHERING EVERYONE
with your STAR-FUCKING.
What is your problem?
My PROBLEM is fucking POSERS like YOU,
showing off in public,
PRETENDING to write some PIECE OF SHIT
studio CRAP, when all you’re REALLY DOING
is trying to GET LAID.
Fuck you. Mind your own business.
She GRABS his laptop --
Hey! Give that back!
Hold on -- let’s just check this out --
'Interior, dorm room. A beer blast is raging. '
Pure shit, I knew it --
Just let me -- erase this -- HA, done.
You fucking CUNT!
Friday WHIPS OUT her piece.
SHOVES it into his crotch.
WHAT did you call me?
Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!
I asked you a QUESTION, asshole.
WHAT did you call me?
A -- cunt.
What did you say? I can’t HEAR YOU.
A cunt, okay? I’m sorry.
P-Please don’t shoot me.
Nice vocabulary --
and you’re supposed to be a writer.
Prepare -- to meet -- your maker.
A dark, WET STAIN forms on his cargo pant shorts.
Hey, you peed your pants.
Bonus points. You get to live.
(lowers the gun)
Thanks. That was fun.
Silly rabbit, I wouldn’t shoot Little Willie.
I know you think with it.
She turns to leave.
A CUTE CO-ED
Cell phone clamped against her ear.
Whispering into it.
Hey, Gidget. Shut off your security blanket.
Can’t you see you’re being terrorized?
(on the phone)
And she’s got a gun --
Friday marches over. GRABS the phone.
SLAMS it on the floor. STOMPS on it.
SMASHES it to pieces.
Whoops. Conversatious interruptus.
God, that’s satisfying, GRRRRRR. Cathartic.
She goes to the door. Opens it. Turns, looks at them.
You’re all lemmings.
Empty victims of marketing,
filling yourselves with shit.
Ciao, kids. Time for my nine-o’clock.
Wish me luck.